


Worlds Collide

by SugarFey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their worlds collided when they met, so they rebuilt a world together.</p><p>
  <i> Edited as of 27/2/13</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Enediyne for the Be_Compromised Secret Santa 2012 on Livejournal and spun out of control.
> 
> Many thanks to Workerbee73, CyberMathWitch and Samalander for the excellent betas!
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains a minor reference to a medical procedure.

She has been in America for a month and progressed from interrogations with suspicious S.H.I.E.L.D agents to men and women in tweed with degrees in front of their names. Somewhere S.H.I.E.L.D has gone from considering her a threat to a salvageable asset.

She is not sure what to make of that.

Barton visits her in a quiet moment between the endless physical examinations and interviews. He tells her about the new bow he is testing, how the strike team he is placed on won’t stop bickering and that he isn’t allowed to smoke on base. After a good ten minutes of blather he asks about her day.

“They did a pelvic exam.”

Barton nods as if considering the information. “Ouch.”

She shrugs. Being poked and prodded by men in lab coats is a known variable.

Barton pulls out a chair and sits down like he belongs there, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall. He is relaxed in the way true masters of their craft are. Unlike amateurs, he can snap to attention and defend himself in an instant. He keeps his distance from her, never leaving the opposite side of the room, but he is not afraid. “Must be boring in here,” he says after a moment.

“I adjust.”

“I’m sure you do.” Barton’s eyes flick over to the leather restraints on the bed. “Kinky.”

She glares at him. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Barton rests his elbows on his knees, watching her. His face is a paradox of youth and experience, and she gives in to her curiosity to observe the man to whom she owes her life. When he pointed an arrow her throat in a Siberian warehouse she had instantly placed him as ex-military, and now that she looks deeper, she sees more. Strong hands, weathered face, keen eyes, slight tan. Sniper, mid-thirties, probably a team player in the field but not off duty. No wedding ring, so married to the job.

“Do you need anything?” he asks. When she doesn’t reply he stands and turns to leave.

“Wait.” Her voice is soft but he stops at the doorway. “An extra blanket.” She keeps her face blank as he looks back her. “I’m cold.”

He nods. “Okay. See ya, Natalia.”

She swallows. “I prefer Natasha.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence in a controlled environment (sparring).

They have Natasha on base for nearly two months when Fury gives the go ahead for them to begin evaluating her physical skills.

Coulson shakes his head when Clint volunteers to test her- in hindsight he might have seemed too eager- and within a week Clint is standing opposite her on the mats while Maria Hill and Phil Coulson sit down with folders and expressions ranging from doubtful (Hill) to curious (Coulson). Natasha herself has tied her hair up in a ponytail and stands with hands on hips, gloves on and eyebrow raised. “Ready, Barton?”

He throws some towels over the ropes of the boxing ring and steps up. “Always.”

They start with basic defensive sparring because Fury doesn’t trust her with a weapon just yet, which Clint thinks is stupid, because any fool can tell she doesn’t need one.

Clint is strong but Natasha is fast, her agility and flexible limbs making up what she lacks in size. He throws a straight punch to her jaw and she blocks it, feinting left and aiming a kick at his knee. The rules forbid hard contact, so she softens the impact at the very last moment.

Clint gets in an uppercut to her jaw, relying on his gloves to soften the blow. Natasha’s elbow slams into his ribs, sending pain shooting through his muscles. The bruise will be spectacular, and the hit wasn’t even at full strength. Natasha steps back into a fighting stance and goes for another kick. She’s grinning.

The fight is long and vicious, and Clint would be lying if said he wasn’t having the time of his life.

Eventually he gets her to the ground in a headlock, only for her to flip her legs up and over the arm holding her down, trapping his head between her thighs and twisting so he has no choice but to roll over.

It was a position he would not at all mind being in if he didn’t know she could snap his neck with one more twist of her hips. Panting, he taps on the mats.

Natasha releases him, and he sits up to come face to face with her. She’s breathing as hard as he is; her hair is plastered to her forehead, her cheeks are flushed, and a bead of sweat slides down her collarbone.

Clint stands and offers a hand to her. Natasha stares at his outstretched arm for a moment, then grips his fingers and pulls herself up.

“Nice work,” he comments as Hill and Coulson take notes. He dries off his hands on one of the two towels he brought with him and passes her the other. “You want to shower? The change rooms are through there.”

Natasha smirks as she accepts the towel. “Do they trust me out on my own now?”

“No,” Clint says simply as they walk towards the change room. “That’s why I need to go with you.”

“Are you expecting to join me?”

Clint chuckles. “Can’t, darlin’. But thanks for the invitation.” He winks and Natasha does not rise to it, so he drops the act. “If you’re uncomfortable I can ask Agent Hill…”

“Oh, please,” Natasha interrupts, pushing the changing room door open with a graceful movement. “Just try not to breathe too hard.”

She stalks into one of the shower stalls and Clint hears the click of the bolt. Setting down his gym bag, he moves to lean against the wall.

“As long as you’re just standing there, you might as well hold my clothes,” Natasha calls, and a black t-shirt flies over the door.

“Uh,” Clint replies stupidly, picking up the t-shirt. “Okay.”

The grey S.H.I.E.L.D issue sweatpants are flung over and Clint catches them mid-flight. Then a sports bra and a pair of white cotton underwear appear over the door.

He hesitates before grabbing the underwear and swears he can hear Natasha laugh. “Are you all right, Hawkeye?”

“I liked you better when you were evil,” he grumbles back.

He hears the rush of the shower being turned on, and a slow sigh that must indicate Natasha stepping under the water. “The water is a little cool,” she says after a moment.

“Yeah, it never heats up here.”

“I prefer warm showers,” Natasha replies, all too casually. “Cold water gives me, oh, what do you call them? Goosebumps.”

“Cold water will do that. Gotta warm you up.”

“Hmm. I like it better hot.”

Clint can’t help but grin. “Do you now?” he drawls, and Natasha laughs.

“Burning.”

The sound of the water abruptly breaks off, and a white hand appears of the top of the door. “Pass me the towel.”

He hands her the towel and a minute later the door opens, revealing Natasha, wrapped in his towel, drops of water sliding down her skin. She stands there for a moment, head cocked as if challenging Clint to react, and warmth spreads throughout his body.

Natasha’s expression shifts back to calculating, and she reaches forward to grab the clothes from his hands. “I think we’re done here, Agent Barton.”

The stall door shuts with a bang and when Natasha emerges again she is dry and fully dressed, her damp hair neatly finger combed.

“Where will you take me now?”

“You say that like you don’t have any choice.”

She shrugs. “S.H.I.E.L.D has every minute of my life mapped out for me until they decide if I’m human.”

Clint says nothing and Natasha rolls her eyes. “Go on. Tell me they haven’t given you orders about where they want me to be.”

“Actually, I’m supposed to take you to the shrink’s office.”

“See?” A smile ghosts across Natasha’s face. “Stop glaring, Barton. You really think I would still be here if it wasn’t my choice?”

“It was this or an arrow.”

“That is a choice.”

Her tone is joking but he hears the truth because there is a file in the foster care system in Iowa detailing exactly how Clint knows what it’s like to have no choices.

“They’re starting you on the shooting range tomorrow,” he says to change the subject.

“How does that work for the good guys? Pistols at dawn, ten paces, everything fair and even?”

Clint snorts. “More like a ten second head start and a sniper rifle.”

“You let them get further away.” She sounds triumphant, like she found the key to stolen treasure and is contemplating the lock.

“Some people think it raises their odds,” he answers. Baghdad, Hong Kong, a burning hospital in St Petersburg. Theirs is never an even game.

“Do you miss them?”

“Only if I want to.”

This seems to make Natasha pause. He wonders if she’s mentally labelling him a cocky asshole (which he would totally deserve) or if she’s thinking about the arrow that missed her heart. They walk into the elevator and she turns to him, arms folded, head tilted to one side as if he’s in her territory rather than the reverse.

“Tell me, Barton. Do you like the chance or the challenge?”

 The elevator comes to a halt and Natasha stalks out, not waiting for the answer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mission fic! Yay!

Four months and two weeks after Agent Barton pointed an arrow at her throat and offered her a deal, Natasha is cleared to go out in the field.

She is unsurprised when Barton is revealed to be her partner, and she has little doubt that he has been ordered to terminate her if she tries to run, no second chances this time. Still, he’s grinning when he tells her the news.

“We’ve got our first mission,” he says, handing her a file. “S.H.I.E.L.D got word that H.Y.D.R.A is after missile plans being kept in the home of Mr Edward Cole in Los Angeles. Officially Cole is on a business trip in Dubai, but he’s been missing for three days.”

“Kidnapped or dead?”

“Most likely kidnapped. We’ve got another team on that. Our job is to steal the plans from his house safe and replace them with fake ones without letting H.Y.D.R.A know we’re on to them.”

“And we don’t blow the cover of the agents infiltrating H.Y.D.R.A.” Natasha fills in the blanks, and she cannot help feeling disappointed. This is her first outing in months and she will become rusty at this rate. “That’s all?”

Barton shrugs apologetically. “I expect they wanted to give you something small to start off.”

“Or maybe they’re punishing you.”

“Maybe they are.” If Barton is bothered by this, it doesn’t show on his face. He may be more soldier than spy, but he has been well taught. “Debrief is in five.”

 

* * *

 

Clint lets out a low whistle when Natasha appears in the foyer in her new skin-tight S.H.I.E.L.D uniform that flatters every curve.

“Looking good, Romanoff.”

“Eyes front and centre, Hawkeye,” she scoffs, but Clint could swear there is a trace of humour in her voice.

Clint reaches into the pocket of his tac vest. “We’re flying commercial to L.A,” he says, pulling out the tickets booked under their aliases and two fake passports. “Say hello to Brian and Rebecca.”

“Married?”

“Business partners. Married is awful dull.”

Natasha ignores him and takes the tickets from his hand. “I take it you’re driving to the airport, Barton?”

“Fury wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

* * *

The hotel room in L.A has thick windows and a heavy door, and Natasha sets up her new laptop on one of the beds while Barton searches for bugs. “We’re clear,” he grunts from under his bed, and emerges with his hair sticking in all directions.

“I’ve got the outlines for Cole’s security system,” Natasha says. “It’s tough, but I can crack it. Cole’s house has three security guards during the day, two at night. Shift changes at five a.m. If I can take out the guards and give the cameras a fake feed and that should leave you enough time to grab whatever’s in the safe before the shift changes. I can keep a data card and wipe the copies.”

Barton stretches out next to her on the bed, his shirt riding up to expose his stomach and the shadows fall over the muscles working as he rolls over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “Okay. Once I’m in, you keep watch on the area while I crack the safe.”

“Can you crack the lock without tools?” Natasha does not hide her suspicion. Safes are not her thing.

“Topic experts. Anything comes my way, let me know.”

“You trust me watch your back, Barton?”

He looks at her hard. “I trust you to do your job.”

 

* * *

 

They make their way to Cole’s house at midnight.

“You go in and take the system down,” Barton whispers beside her as they crouch by the surrounding wall. “Keep in contact, I’ll watch you over the scope.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.” Barton stoops to give her a boost up the wall. “Good luck, Widow.”

Natasha frowns at him, unsure how to respond, before jumping up and climbing over the wall.

It takes her no time at all to locate the first guard, knock him out with a strategically placed syringe and zip-tie him. When he wakes S.H.I.E.L.D will offer him a considerable sum of money to change careers and never speak of this. According to their information he is a middle-aged single father with crappy health insurance. He will take the money.

One guard down.

The second guard in the guard house takes a little more time. A light sleeping gas placed in the air vents has him drifting off while Natasha waits. He will think he fell asleep on the job.

The security system turns out to be ridiculously easy to crack for a man housing missile plans. In no time the cameras and alarms are down. Now she just needs to break the separate alarms in the corridor leading to the study where the safe is kept.

Moving through the house to an upstairs corridor, Natasha pulls down her goggles. Thin red lines criss-cross her vision.

Lasers. How Hollywood.

This is what the Black Widow was designed for. Edging around the corner, she lifts one foot over the first laser and ducks under the second, twisting and weaving her way through the red maze.

She bends over, arching her back, sliding her legs along the ground and then raising up fast, just missing the next beam. Natasha ducks under it, tensing her body, ready to drop beneath one and over another. The forest of red is thinning out.

“Well, hell,” she hears Barton say. “Didn’t think bodies could move like that.”

“Are you going to offer commentary the entire time?” Natasha replies through gritted teeth as she moves.

“Nah. Just taking some notes.”

Duck, weave, bend, twist.

She is through.

She has just finished disengaging the lasers from the control panel when Barton’s voice crackles over her earpiece. “Talk to me, Widow.”

“Systems are down,” she tells Barton. “Stand by.”

She slips out of the house and takes advantage of the darkness to climb back over the wall and onto a nearby roof, setting up her scope so she can keep an eye on Barton and the surrounding area. After a moment, his face turns up behind a front window.

“The safe is in the study. Up the stairs, make a left.”

He moves through the house like a ghost, following her directions and saying little. When he reaches the study he makes straight for the safe.

Natasha watches as Barton pulls on a pair of gloves and takes a ream of graph paper and a pencil from his bag.  Setting them aside, he places his hand on the lock and rests his head against the door. Carefully, he begins to turn the dial.

It seems like forever, her watching him over the scope as his fingers move and he notes down the numbers between each turn. His hands a large and rough, yet dexterous and steady as the man himself.

The minutes on her watch click over and Natasha itches at her lack of control. “Hurry up, Hawkeye,” she hisses, and over in the study Barton doesn’t even move.

“Shh,” he breathes, his cheek resting against the metal beside the lock. “I’ve got this.” He looks calm, focused, eyes half closed like he has all the time in the world. Natasha could kick him.

Another minute passes; she's on the verge of speaking again when the edge of Barton’s lips curl upwards in satisfaction and suddenly, the safe door is open and Barton is calmly removing the contents. With only minutes left until the new guards come on shift, he replaces the files with fakes with agonising slowness before turning to the window, his hand raised in a two-fingered salute.

“See you later, Widow.”

Packing up the scope, Natasha slides down from her perch and pushes off the roof, preparing for the impact. She lands on the dumpster by the wall as she planned, rolling off and launching straight into a run down the side street.

Her rubber-soled boots make little noise as she cuts through a darkened car park and hauls herself up the wall of an abandoned building, climbing towards the floor where she and Barton are to meet. She feels the familiar burn in her shoulders from the climb and she has missed this, the chase and the satisfaction of doing what so few people can.

She pulls herself over the edge of a bare window and slides into the shadows to wait for Barton. He cannot be far behind.

He’s not. He comes rushing into the abandoned building a few minutes later, his face gleaming with sweat. “Hey, Nat,” he says happily, his face lit up like Christmas morning. Natasha knows an adrenaline rush when she sees one. “Extraction should be along in ten. Here.”

He tosses a USB drive in her direction which Natasha catches in mid-air. “Anything else?” she asks, pulling out her laptop.

Barton pulls a bundle of papers and two external hard drives out of his backpack. “That’s all. Cole’s laptop was left in his hotel room when he went missing. Fucking amateurs.”

She sets about copying the files onto her computer while Barton crushes the hard drives under his boot and sets a match to the papers. When the files are done he holds out his hand wordlessly and she throws him the USB to add to the pile. It should be troubling, really, how easily they have fallen into place, but Natasha is surprised by how natural it feels. Barton is efficient and professional and she cannot help but admire his skill. Hawkeye had a reputation for good reason.

“C’mon,” he tells her, shrugging on his backpack. “We’re meeting the chopper on the roof.”

 

* * *

 

The flight back to New York is mostly silent. Clint glances over at Natasha from time to time, and once catches her watching him like he’s some sort of specimen she can’t categorise. It should be creepy, but he respects it. Evaluating the variables.

“We did good today,” Clint says after their debriefing, pulling a sweatshirt out of his duffle bag and swapping it for his S.H.I.E.L.D jacket. “Want to grab something to eat?”

Natasha’s eyebrow arches. “Are you asking me out?” she retorts, disbelief palpable.

Clint shrugs. “You have to eat sometime, Nat.”

Natasha takes a long look at him that he can’t even begin to read. “Okay,” she says finally, like she has come to a decision about more than just a dinner. “I’ll change and meet you at the exit. Clint.”

Clint tries not to smile too much.


	4. Chapter 4

They catch the subway to an Italian restaurant in the Upper West Side and get a table near the back, away from the windows but not too far from the emergency exit.

The restaurant is dimly lit with candles on each table, and the light gleams on Natasha’s crimson curls as she bends over her menu. Clint shrugs off his old leather jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair. “Do you want some wine?” he offers after a few moments of silence.

“White.” Natasha doesn’t even look up.

“Sorry?”

“I’d like white wine.” Natasha closes her menu and unfolds her napkin with a swift flick so she can spread it over her skirt. “And I’ll have the Bolognese.”

A smartly dressed waiter hones in on them and Clint fumbles when he realises he hasn’t even opened his menu yet. Not wanting to look foolish, he orders the first thing on the pasta list without even reading the ingredients and the waiter frowns before Natasha tells him her order in perfect Italian. The waiter’s frown disappears and is replaced with a raised colour and an enthusiastic “of course, _signora._ ”

The wine is brought to their table in an ice bucket and when Natasha sips at her glass she leaves a perfect lipstick stain at the rim that holds Clint’s fascination for a little too long.

“Seen any movies lately?” he says to break the silence, and the moment the words leave his mouth Clint knows how idiotic he sounds. He’s worse than a teenager on a first date.

“I don’t have time to go to the movies,” Natasha replies.

“Right. Of course not.”

What did two secret agents talk about in a crowded restaurant? It isn’t like they can discuss their work. _Hey, how about that man I shot in the eye? Great stuff, huh?_

Fortunately their waiter chooses that moment to bring the food, and Clint is distracted by the dish he apparently ordered. The plate is massive, filled with gnocchi swimming in what looks like a tomato-based sauce. He may be a big eater, but this is doubtful.

Natasha glances at Clint’s dinner without comment before dipping her fork into her steaming plate of spaghetti and expertly rolling it into her spoon. Clint shovels some gnocchi into his mouth and the silence rapidly turns awkward.

“I could cook this better,” Natasha says finally.

“Really?” Clint smirks. “Prove it.”

If there is one thing he has learnt about Natasha Romanoff over the course of their brief partnership, it’s that she never turns down a challenge. She sits back, eyes narrowed. “Fine. Your place, tomorrow night. You’d better have proper pots.”

  

* * *

 

Natasha knocks on Barton… Clint’s door at half past five on the dot, because she is nothing if not punctual.

Clint opens the door wearing a faded blue t-shirt and jeans, his hair untidy. “Hey,” he greets her, resting his arm against the doorframe.

Natasha hates lingering in corridors. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Clint’s apartment is messy but Spartan in its furnishings, fitting for a man who doesn’t come home often. A guitar leans in the corner opposite the TV, and two empty pizza boxes are taking up space on the coffee table.

The kitchen, when she reaches it, is suspiciously clean in a way that suggests Clint had been running around with a mop just before she knocked on the door. A pot gleams on the stovetop and a chopping board lies on the counter.

Clint comes up behind her and Natasha hears the smile in his voice. “Okay, Romanoff. Show me what you’ve got.”

Natasha plunks her cotton tote bag full of ingredients on the counter and takes out a bundle of basil. “Stand back, Barton.”

She stays in the kitchen while Clint moves around her, cracking the occasional joke she only vaguely acknowledges. She breathes in the scent of herbs as she stirs the sauce, inhales steam when she cooks the spaghetti. Natasha remembers the first time she made a sauce, a simple tomato and olive mixture when she was in Florence. She had been seventeen, only a few months post her escape from the Red Room, and she was posing as an art student in a small apartment. It had been the first time she had slept more than two nights in the same place, and she had passed through the local market on impulse and bought whatever she could afford, relishing the freedom to linger over vegetables and bargain for a good price. The results had been awful, burnt sauce and mushy pasta, but she had eaten the whole lot all the same.

Natasha tried more recipes after that, pasta mostly, boscaiola and puttanesca and a disastrous attempt at a marinara, but she is confident she can produce an edible Bolognese.

She serves up two plates of spaghetti and Clint tries a mouthful. “Wow,” he concludes. “This is actually pretty good.”

“You doubted it?”

“You don’t strike me as the cooking type.” Clint chews and swallows. “I’ll have to make you some real Midwestern food.”

Natasha scrunches her nose. “As long as it doesn’t involve steak. I don’t like slabs of burnt meat.”

Clint looks crestfallen and Natasha realises real Midwestern food must indeed involve steak.

The conversation moves on and he tells her details of his childhood and his time in the Special Forces, untold stories hidden beneath “I got sunburnt in Iraq” and “I can’t stand the smell of whiskey.” Clint chuckles and sips his beer while Natasha plays fill in the blanks.

Her offerings are small because her memory is a patchwork mess of operating tables and razor blades, and ‘top of the class’ means something different in the Red Room. But she wants to make the effort, because Clint’s partnership is her security and it needs to work. She tells him what he wants to hear and he asks questions to prompt her further, his eyes clear, body language open, all the tactics to invite trust. He must know she can read his tells, but Natasha appreciates that he, too, is trying to figure out what makes them work.

They discuss music and Clint is appalled to hear that she has never listened to Bruce Springsteen, so he hooks his iPod up to a set of speakers. “Sit back,” he orders, hand raised, “and listen.”

The room is filled melancholic harmonica while Springsteen growls about the river.

“Your sentimentality will be your downfall one day,” she comments as Clint sits back down next to her.

He says nothing.

 

* * *

 

As much as Clint appreciates his job, there are times when it becomes terminally boring.

He and Natasha have been stuck in a scorching hot safe house in the middle of the Brazilian wilderness for at least three hours, waiting for the go-ahead from Coulson. The tiny electric fan stutters on the floor, struggling with each rotation. Despite its efforts, the room is so humid the air feels sticky.

Clint lies out on the camp bed, throws an arm across his eyes and sighs. “What I wouldn’t give for a cheeseburger and fries right about now.”

“You’re disgusting,” Natasha remarks from where she has folded herself up in the chair at the foot of the bed. Her hair is tied up into a bun to expose her neck, and she has stripped down to a tiny green tank top that clings to her chest in ways that made Clint fake a bout of coughing when she unbuttoned her shirt.

“Yeah, but you like it,” Clint says without thinking, and quickly looks over to check her reaction.

Her response is to ignore the entendre entirely. “I’d much rather have lasagne.”

“Pasta freak.”

Natasha unfolds one of her long legs to kick his ankle. “Just because you have the eating habits of a fourteen year old boy, doesn’t mean that I have to.”

“Not true. Sometimes I eat Thai.”

“Thai is good,” Natasha agrees.

“When this is over I’ll make you a tom yum soup.”

“When did you learn to cook tom yum soup?” she asks, stretching out her legs and grimacing. Her knee was still giving her trouble from when she twisted it in Budapest.

Clint shrugs, leans over and swiftly pulls her legs onto the bed before she can protest. “Had some days off in Bangkok.” He takes a sip from the water bottle and then passes it over to Natasha. “I’d still like a cheeseburger though.”

“Talk about cheeseburgers again and I will hold you down and feed you borscht.”

“You mean that horrible beetroot stuff?” He tries not to let the horror show on his face.

“The same.”

Clint swallows. “Aren’t you cashing in on the cultural stereotypes a little hard?”

“Not as long as you hate beetroot.”

“Devil woman.”

“Asshole.”

“You still like it.” He lets a bit of the Midwestern drawl through and rolls over to face her, letting his arm dangle over the edge of the bed where her feet are resting. The blanket is rough and itchy and when he moves bits of fallen-down ceiling plaster stick to his skin. This place is a dump.

He can feel Natasha watching him from beneath her dark lashes, outwardly calm but always ready to strike, and at that moment she reminds him of a fox or perhaps a ginger cat. She would kill him if he told her that, so he chooses a less dangerous option. “Come have dinner with me on Wednesday.”

She shakes her head, curls flying. “I’m going rock climbing with Hill and Carter.”

Clint should be happy for her, and he is, happy that she’s getting to know people, that she isn’t being treated as a complete outsider. Still, he has to fight the sudden hollow feeling in his stomach. “Oh. Okay.”

“Another time, maybe.”

“Sure.”

He leans back and drops his arms over his eyes again, blocking out the patchy ceiling and the cheap furniture and his bow leaning against the far wall, and Natasha’s feet move from the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, folks, it's the mood whiplash chapter! Many thanks to Workerbee73 for the beta and Frea_O for help with the action scenes.
> 
> Warnings: semi-graphic violence, references to mind control, sexual references.

Clint does convince Natasha to try steak, and she forces him to eat a whole bowl of borscht in retaliation. They go out to diners sometimes in their off-duty hours, and as the months wear on Natasha even joins Clint’s strike team for a few drinks, trading war stories with Townsend and teaming up with Bishara to stare down Morrison’s attempts at humour. When Clint and Natasha go in the field their success rate is impeccable.

In the final days of summer Clint finds himself on a rooftop in Istanbul, watching the sunset while he and Natasha wait for their flight out. They dip chunks of bread into a container of baba ganoush and Natasha laughs when he tells her a joke.

He gets assigned to another strike team without her as soon as they reach New York, and when he returns he finds her gone. Coulson meets him at the debrief and informs Clint that Fury finally gave the go-ahead to assign the Black Widow to solo missions.

“She’s come a long way,” Coulson says, watching Clint closely.

“Yeah, I guess she has.”

Clint doesn’t see her for a while after that.

 

* * *

It’s autumn and he has just returned from a two week long stint in Baghdad, and all Clint can think about is a cool shower and passing out in his apartment. The memory of hot, dry air rubs against his skin like sandpaper. He hates the desert.

Clint is halfway to the exit when Agent Ramirez stops him, her heels clicking on the linoleum floors. There is an undercover op in Berlin, and Natasha will be his partner. She is returning from Hong Kong tomorrow.

He has a giddy little bounce in his step as he leaves, and on impulse Clint takes Bukowski up on a game of chess at a café in The Village. Bukowski is an agent of the old school, nearing the age where he should retire from the field, and is the proud owner of a walrus moustache. He plays a mean game of chess but Clint actually has a chance against the guy, which is why he will never, ever play a game with Natasha. Bukowski calls him a young buck and orders coffee that’s thick as mud, and Clint couldn’t care less.

When Clint reaches Ramirez’s office for the debrief the next morning, the first thing he sees is a blur of red filling his vision like a night sky after a bomb blast. He stares, breath caught, wondering if he will burn if he looks too long, when the figure turns and he is looking at Natasha’s face.

“Hey, Clint.”

He finds his voice again. “Tasha. Welcome back.”

Clint sits down next to her, close but not too close, just as Ramirez bustles into the office, cleaning her glasses while two thick files threaten to slip from under her arms. She passes them out with obvious relief as she begins to explain about an airborne toxin developed by some sadistic scientist that causes those who come in contact with it to experience terrifying, violent hallucinations.

“There’s no telling the damage this could do if it fell into the wrong hands,” Ramirez says while they study the files. “All you would need to do is release it near your enemies and sit back and watch while they kill each other.”

Natasha’s spine is poker-straight as she flips through her file.

“You leave for Berlin tonight,” Ramirez finishes, handing over two plane tickets. “The hotel has already been booked under your aliases.”

 

* * *

 

Pillars fly past the car window, marking out what used to be the edge of a curtain Natasha was born behind. He parks the car and they check into their suite at the Hotel Adlon under their cover identities. Clint is Allan Roy, arms dealer representative, and Natasha is Elena Petrova, his mistress (and former call girl to boot) because S.H.I.E.L.D likes its cliches.

They get to the room and through the windows the lights of Berlin at night stretch out before them, a city torn apart for decades and still trying to find its feet. The room is a sumptuous confection in tasteful cream and gold, the centrepiece a king size bed with a heavy wooden frame.

“I’m surprised they didn’t provide complimentary handcuffs,” Clint quips when he sees it.

“They’re in the bedside drawer,” Natasha returns as she opens her suitcase, but it comes out a little strained. A normal person would not pick up on it, but Clint has known Natasha for long enough. She opens the wardrobe and the hangers jangle as she unpacks her dresses.

“Tasha,” Clint says, careful to keep his voice neutral, “I can sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natasha replies crisply, her back still turned. “You’ll cramp up.” She pulls some clothes out of her suitcase and disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Clint pretends not to hear the click of the lock.

Clint changes into his sweatpants while he waits for Natasha to come out of the bathroom. After a while she returns wearing black yoga pants and a large t-shirt, a knife loosely clasped in her hand. For a moment she looks very young.

“I’ll take the left side,” she murmurs, and Clint takes that as his cue to climb into that enormous bed.

Natasha crawls in after him and pulls up the blankets with a few inches of space between them. She slides the knife under her pillow and turns away, red curls dripping over soft silk.

Clint reaches over and turns off the bedside light. He hears Natasha’s voice cut through the silence like a bell.

“I’ve seen this stuff before.”

In the dim light he can make out a sliver of her face, cold and moon-white. She folds her arms around herself as her lips move over the words. “The toxin. Not airborne, and no violent effects. But the hallucinations, I’ve seen done. When I was younger.” She rolls over onto her stomach, covering her face.

 

* * *

 Clint has never been that comfortable in a tux. He buttons his dress shirt and manages a decent attempt at the bow tie, even though Natasha will tie it again anyway. Clint figures he might as well make the effort to try.

Natasha leaves the dressing room in a floor length cream gown embroidered with silver pearls and a neckline that falls almost to her waist. Her hair is swept into a cascade of curls that fall over her right shoulder and the gown is loose enough that no one can make out the knife she always has strapped to her thigh. How has this happened? When he first met her fours years ago she was sinew and bone, half-starved, and even after she was working out and eating proper meals she remained slight, never delicate, always beautiful, but somehow brittle. The Natasha he knew then was a girl. This woman is a bombshell.

“You’ve got your bow tie all messed up again.”

She steps behind him and her hands come round to adjust the scrap of fabric. He can smell her perfume, something dark and expensive that Allan Roy would buy for his plaything, and his breath hitches when her fingers brush the hollow of his throat. Natasha must notice, but she doesn’t react to it. Her nerves of the previous evening are gone, leaving solid professionalism in their wake.

Clint watches the curve of her spine as she picks up her bag, already emitting the body language of Elena Petrova, seductress.

“You look gorgeous.”

“I know,” Natasha returns with a smile, but her voice has a subtle higher pitch, breathy, with a Russian accent she never has off duty. “Get your coat, Hawkeye.”

 

* * *

 

Clint is halfway through a poker game with some other possible buyers when Natasha shifts her weight to brush up against him, a hand resting against his belt. He gets the message. _Make this look good._

Purposefully ignoring the goons around them, he stands up to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her forward, crushing his lips onto hers. The kiss is filthy, Natasha’s lithe body grinding against him as she moans into his mouth. He grips her chin with his free hand, feels the life pulsing in her throat and _fuck_ , he could tear her apart. He could swallow her whole and still be wanting.

They break off this kiss and he feels her fingers gently tapping on his wrist. _Enemy spotted. Cover compromised. Regroup._

Getting the message, Clint leers at the other poker players. “Hope you don’t mind if we take this up later?”

They laugh knowingly and wave him off, and he practically drags Natasha from the room. They keep up a good act on the way out of the building, including a few memorable moments that will tide him over on lonely stakeouts, and when they reach the car he presses her against the back door, sliding his hand up her thigh while he grabs the handle. Natasha grabs fistfuls of his shirt as he kisses down her neck, giving tiny gasps and moans like nothing he’s ever heard. He looks up to kiss her again and her pupils are dilated, almost black in the gloom. It sends a shock right down to his core and he angles his hips away from her.

Clint gets the door open and lowers her onto the back seat, shutting the door as he crawls in after her. The moment the lock clicks Natasha sits up, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Did you see the blonde woman on Wertman’s arm? Black dress, big ring on her finger? She’s Red Room. Titania Ivanova, code name Snow Fox.”

“Shit. Think they have a stake in this?”

“Titania always seemed like a true believer, but you never know. I think if she’d gone rogue I would have heard about it. If Titania reports back to her handler…”

She is about to turn away and Clint grips her arms without thinking, forcing her around to face him. “Tasha, think about this. We can take out Titania, request an extract, regroup-“

“And blow the mission? You really think Fury will let this lie?” Natasha swears under her breath in Russian. “Even if we eliminate Titania, the Red Room will be after this stuff. A fear toxin is just the sort of thing they think is fun. I have to do this, but you can’t let them get the stuff. Please, Clint.” Her face is set, lips pressed together, eyes cold, and Clint knows even as the anger burns under his skin. This is about loose ends. This is about what is owed.

He releases her and leans back against the car seat. “If you’re not alive and at the extraction point in an hour I’ll write you a really bad obituary,” he says, and the words feel like ash in his mouth.

Natasha nods briskly. “All Titania has to do is step out and report to her handler. It has to happen now.” She reaches up and runs her fingers through her hair, messing up the perfect curls. Wiping off her lipstick with the back of her hand, she pulls at one strap of her dress, letting it expose the curve of her breast beneath. She reaches down to rumple up her dress and turns to him.

“How do I look?”

She looks debauched, corrupted, the sum of every fantasy come to life.

“Like you’ve just been fucked in the back of a car.”

“Good. Undo your bow tie and mess up your shirt.”

She pushes the car door open and does not look back.

 

* * *

 

_Titania is inches taller than Natalia and two years older, but Natalia has always risen to a challenge._

_She doubles over when Titania kicks her in the ribs, her breath straining her lungs as the room spins in a blinding fever._

_“Natalia!”_

_The instructor’s voice rings in her ear. “Get up, girl.”_

_She is so tired. The mat is warm and slippery with sweat beneath her palms._

_“The victor for today’s session is…”_

_Natalia lashes out, spitting blood._

* * *

 The rattle of her gun skittering over the concrete surface is like fingernails through Natasha’s skull as she slams into the wall, barely throwing her hands out to catch herself in time.

Her neck is stinging from where Titania’s ring swiped across her skin, and she should not be this slow.

Rings. Titania and her poisons.

_Fuck._

Titania crashes into her from behind again, sending Natasha spinning into the corner. The white surface hurtles towards her as Titania’s arms latch around her, pulling her to the floor.

Natasha’s arms are slow, heavy, like moving through water as she breaks Titania’s hold. Her palms tear open on the concrete as she tries to scramble away, only to feel Titania’s boot hitting her back. She swallows down the rising panic and forces herself to think it through.

She is drugged, her reflexes shot. They’re on the roof of a public building. Titania will want to make this fast, want a bloodless kill that makes a body easy to dispose of, no DNA left.

Natasha has to get out of this corner.

Her teeth sinking into her lip, she throws a wild punch, catching Titania’s jaw by luck rather than skill.

Natasha sees Titania’s leg move but she can’t move out of the way fast enough. The kick lands hard against her rib cage and Natasha collapses. She expected the pain but it still hurts. Her lungs strain for air and the only thing she can do is fold in on herself, try to protect her vital organs.

Her vision blurs. The wind is too loud in her ears. Something lands across her throat, an arm probably, and instinct makes Natasha bring up her hands but she is too disoriented to break the grip.

The world is going dark.

Did you think you could run, little girl? Slip on a new skin and hope it makes you human? This is what you are. They will always find you. The Red Room never forgets.

It’s time.

_“Tasha!”_

What the hell was he doing here?

Titania whirls around, gun suddenly in hand as she lets go and fires a shot in Clint’s direction as Natasha falls, coughing, but free.

Ears ringing, she conjures all her remaining strength to launch herself forward and grab her discarded gun.

She can make out two black human-shaped smudges in the gloom. One is staggering, the other is on the ground. Which is which?

A speck of light catches on long blonde hair and Natasha fires. Once. Twice. Until nearly the whole clip is empty.

The shots echo in the air and fade away. Titania is down.

Keeping the gun pointed at Titania with shaking hands, Natasha looks over to Clint. He is sprawled on the ground, face turned away, but he is wearing his tac vest and she can barely make out his chest rising and falling.

Natasha crawls over to Titania’s body and pulls herself up onto her knees. Titania is a mess, her breath coming in thready gasps. Blood trickles from the corner of Titania’s mouth as Natasha’s vision swims into focus.

It will not be long now. Titania’s voice rasps as her lips form Russian words. _“Remember who you are, Natalia.”_

The air is cold and Natasha is in a city that was destroyed and rebuilt out of ash and concrete dust, and her partner is still breathing.

She shoots Titania in the face. _“I know who I am.”_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long!
> 
> Warnings: contains mention of injuries.

“This show is terrible.”

Clint raises his finger at his partner. “I like cop shows. Don’t mock them.”

“Their interrogation style is appalling.” Natasha shifts into a more comfortable position on the couch and reaches into the bowl for more popcorn. “The ‘good cop bad cop’ routine is so transparent.”

Clint leans forward and swiftly steals the popcorn from Natasha’s hands, and she kicks him. “Hey!”

Grinning, Clint moves to lie back and barely covers up when the pain in his shoulder makes him cringe.

Next to him, Natasha frowns. “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint manages. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You got shot in the shoulder in Berlin.”

He flicks popcorn into her hair. “Stop worrying, Romanoff, I’ll start to think you like me.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and looks back at the television screen. “Are those two sleeping together?”

“Benson and Stabler? Nah. It’s an epic cock-tease of will they, won’t they.”

“That’s stupid. Isn’t he divorced or something? Why don’t they do it and get it over with?”

“Getting invested, Tasha?”

Natasha makes a face at him, but her eyes are sparkling and his heart stutters. He coughs and reaches for a slice of cold pizza still resting on the coffee table from when Natasha appeared at his door hours ago. “So what’s work been like?” he asks to change the subject.

Natasha lets out a long sigh, moving to lean against his good shoulder so she can pull her legs on to the couch. “Uneventful. Fury’s got me giving lectures to newbies.”

“Subtle of him.” Clint shifts to make his shoulder more comfortable, which involves arranging his arm around her. “Must beat being cooped up here, though.”

Natasha laughs and he feels her shoulders shake against his arm. “You have a top quality entertainment system and cable. I have a bunch of kids who jump whenever I come up behind them.”

“I thought you just said the shows were crap.”

“Well, it’s late night programming and… oh my god, Clint, is that guy trying to fire a gun?”

Clint directs his attention to the television to see a bad actor in gangster-wear-according-to-the-wardrobe-department fire at a group of police offers. “Okay,” he concedes, nudging her. “I’ll give you this one. That is an awful grip.”

Natasha yawns and turns her cheek to rest against his chest, closing her eyes. “If this is what you’re reduced to watching I’ll have to come save you.”

She doesn’t see how he smiles. “I don’t doubt it.”

Her chest rises and falls as she goes into a doze, and Clint cannot resist combing his fingers through her hair. Natasha has seemed tired and distracted ever since he woke up in hospital after Berlin, and it concerns him, even though she never brings it up.

Careful not to make a sound, Clint slides his body out from underneath hers, supporting her shoulders so he can lower her head down onto a pillow. Natasha groans a little at the movement, burrowing her face into the fabric. He grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and pulls it over her, tucking in the corners.

“Hmm.” Natasha does not open her eyes and settles deeper against the pillow. “Draw on me in my sleep and you’re dead.”

Hands folded under the pillow and her face slack, she looks young and innocent in a way she never does when she is fully awake, and Clint has to leave the room before he gets too close.

 

* * *

 Natasha wakes to the sound of Clint’s foot creaking on a floorboard. It’s a deliberate move, he can move noiselessly if he needs to, and she appreciates the gesture. Of course, it is for his own good. The first time they shared a room she pulled a gun on him when he offered her coffee.

She opens her eyes. “Hey.”

Clint looks like hell. His hair is messy, his t-shirt stained from last night’s pizza and the rings under his eyes show how little he must have slept. “Hey yourself,” he returns, voice hoarse. “I’ll make tea.”

He moves around the kitchen, favouring his right arm and when he bends to get dishes out of the drawers Natasha hears him hiss.

“How’s the arm?”

“It’s fine. Not a problem.”

“Tell me to my face.”

“It’s fine, Tasha!” He turns to face her with a pout, and Natasha needs to interfere before she has a full size Clint Barton sulk on her hands.

“Enough with the macho posturing. I can tell you’re in pain.”

“It doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Sure. Have you changed the dressing today?”

Clint waits a while before replying. “No.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Barton. Come here.”

She gets the first aid kit with Clint’s bandages and Clint does not move, so Natasha goes over to him “Shirt. Off. _Now._ ”

Clint blinks. “Damn, Romanoff.”

Standing in front of him, she slides her fingers under the hem of his shirt. His skin is warm and she tries to ignore the way his breathing deepens.

“Sit down and let me help you,” she says, and it comes out much huskier than she intends, because she remembers how he felt under her hands pressed up against a car in Berlin. She keeps her eyes down as she changes the dressing, pretending not to notice him staring.

“There.” Natasha sits back up and Clint’s face is unreadable.

Clint reaches forward and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “You look tired.”

“So do you.”

“Tasha.” He is so close now. “What did that woman say to you in Berlin?”

“She told me to remember who I was. I said I already knew.”

Time slows as Clint leans in, like she could burn from the heat of him. “And who are you?”

Natasha swallows. There is no air in the room.

“I...”

Her phone beeps.

Clint falls back as Natasha scrabbles for it, catching her breath as she checks the screen.

“It’s Coulson,” she says, finally. “They’re sending me to Malibu.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brainwashing, trauma and recovery

The solo missions are endless, and Natasha knows it is an unsubtle punishment from Fury for blowing the Berlin mission. After her infuriating stint as Tony Stark’s assistant comes an undercover job in Moscow. She hasn’t seen Clint in almost eight months. They managed to Skype a few times in Malibu and then send text messages until her cover got too deep. Natasha deleted his messages from her phone, but she remembers the last one word for word.

_Got four days leave in May. Hope you’re back by then._

Coulson calls in the middle of her interrogation and Natasha wants to kill him. _I don’t want to spend another month surrounded by idiots, fuck you very much._

“Natasha,” she hears. Then, “Barton’s been compromised.”

There it is.

“Let me put you on hold.”

 

* * *

She tries to sleep on the plane to India, but it is impossible. She remembers the freezing safe house in Budapest, where she and Clint shared a sleeping bag for warmth and she woke to find his nose buried in her hair, fighting back to back in Abidjan, Clint stitching up a cut on her back in Guangzhou, hauling him to meet helicopter in Berlin.

He has to come back. They have been through too much for Natasha to lose him to an alien prince throwing a tantrum, god-like powers or no.

She should have known this would happen. She has become too complacent, too safe in her skin. Hasn’t she learnt that everything good gets torn away?

Natasha can survive without Clint, without S.H.I.E.L.D, without Maria, Sharon, all of them. She has plans in place, bolt holes, information, hidden bank accounts, everything she needs should she be on her own again. Give her thirty minutes and S.H.I.E.L.D would never find her. But god, she doesn’t want to use it, not yet.

When she brings Banner to the Helicarrier the place is a hive of activity.

Around her agents young and old gush about Captain America, the luxury, Natasha thinks, of living in a land where the Second World War conjures up pictures of fond farewells at train stations and victory rolls rather than starvation and frozen bodies piling up in the streets.

Maria Hill meets her in the hall when Natasha leaves Banner in the laboratory. Natasha greets her with a nod, and Maria falls in step beside her.

“Feeling okay?” she asks quietly.

“I can do my job fine,” Natasha snaps.

“I know, Natasha,” Maria returns, surprising Natasha by using her first name. Maria is normally all business when on the clock. “That’s not why I’m asking.”

They never discuss Natasha’s partnership with Clint directly, but Maria isn’t second in command for nothing. “There will be a way to break Loki’s hold,” Natasha says instead of answering.

“I’m sure.” Maria’s face indicates otherwise, and Natasha hates her at that moment. She starts to walk away.

“Romanoff!” Maria calls after her. “Don’t think I’m letting you get out of the Buffalo hike.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk to Loki’s cell is not long.

 

* * *

 

_You are a soldier, you do not question. It is easier that way._

_You are a weapon, you are a blade. You exist according to His will._

_You bring down fortresses and take lives and it is easy. You were blind, but now He has made you see._

_This is the Way._

_A hand falls on your shoulder and you shoot, she is nothing._

_She is nothing and she is in the way._

_She is…_

_You…_

_Pain rings in your ears._

_Silence._

 

* * *

Clint leans forward, fingertips brushing over a bruise forming at her throat, next to the tiny scar from his tranquiliser dart many years ago. “Was that me?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’ve had worse,” she replies. If she said yes he would apologise, and she can’t bear that right now.

Clint nods, pulling his hand back, and his eyes are dim. “Remember when we first became partners, and I said I would shoot anyone who tried to kill you?”

“Yes. I told you to stick your damn chivalry up your ass because I can look after myself.”

He laughs humourlessly and Natasha looks down at the floor. She had been certain back then that her enemies would catch up with her. Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D aside, the world was full of people who had good reasons to want her dead. Clint must have sensed something when he spoke those words after a training session, almost as an afterthought while he packed up his quiver. She had scoffed at him and left the gym with a sarcastic wave, but it felt good to know someone had her back.

Moments ago he was gone, transformed into something that was not Clint, and it felt like dying.

Clint inches closer to her because he’s here now, but the space between them is impossibly wide.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she struggles not to come undone.

 

* * *

“We saved New York from aliens.”

That’s a phrase Clint will never get used to.

The doctor who examines him in S.H.I.E.L.D Medical tells Clint to report to the shrinks the next day, and he is about to refuse when Fury enters.

“Barton, you’re doing a full psych evaluation and that’s an order,” he snaps, and the doctor shoots him a grateful look.

Dr Goldberg passes Clint a handwritten note. “I’ll tell them you’re physically healthy,” she says to Clint after Fury has left, “but you should expect them to be fairly thorough.”

The curtains around the examining table rustle and are pushed aside to reveal an exhausted looking Natasha. She has a bandage taped to her forehead and a split lip but her face is clean and she’s dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that looks three times too big for her, and she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“Did you come with balloons and a get-well card?” Clint asks, and Natasha folds her arms.

“No. I came to take you back to your quarters.”

Clint can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes his throat. “Does Fury think I need an escort now?”

Natasha’s expression does not change. “Would you rather it be someone else?”

Clint says nothing because the answer is obvious. He slides off the table, waves a half-hearted salute to the doctor and follows Natasha’s sweatshirt-clad back out the door.

“This is bullshit. I don’t need to talk to a shrink,” he grumbles when they are alone in the hall.

“Afraid of what they’ll find?” Natasha asks lightly, and the jab hits him right in the gut. Natasha can be ruthless in the pursuit of truth. He has seen her turn men into sobbing wrecks of their former selves without ever laying a hand on them.

“You know I won’t say anything anyway.”

She grabs his arm and spins him round to face her, and this is the Black Widow before him, his partner and the most dangerous woman he knows. “You’re going, Barton,” she utters; so calm it scares the hell out of him. “You will go, and you will tell them everything that’s going on in your head right now. Because you either talk to them or you talk to me, and you know I’ll get it out of you.”

He stares, incredulous, and she softens her grip. “This is what I know, Clint,” she says, and she is Natasha again. “Remember how you walked me to my appointments? You need to level out. Trust me on this one.”

“Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll go.”

Clint has never seen Natasha look more relieved. “Don’t shut down on me, Clint. Not when I just… not when you’ve just come back.”

His chest constricts, but he fell long ago. Reaching up, he covers her hand with his, feels the soft smoothness of her skin under his fingers. “You know me, Tasha,” he murmurs, and damn it all, his voice breaks on the sound. “I’ll always try to come back.”

Natasha gives him half a smile. “You are stubborn like that.”

 

* * *

Clint is confined to the S.H.I.E.L.D barracks under official order, and when the doctors tell Natasha that Clint is not allowed visitors, she goes straight to Maria. Maria does not even blink before giving permission.

Clint’s room is in a different wing to the room where Natasha stayed in her first few months at S.H.I.E.L.D, but the whitewashed corridors are identical, devoid of personality. She knocks on his door and draws breath when she hears his voice.

Clint is sitting on the narrow bed, leaning against the wall. There are shadows under his eyes and his jaw is set in a way that tells Natasha he must have been sitting like this for hours.

“Still mad?”

He sighs, acknowledging her for the first time. “I’m mad at a lot of things. Not at you.” He moves over to create a space next to him on the bed. “They sending you someplace?”

“They want me as a consult in Belarus. My cover’s blown so the field is out, but I can give intel. Don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

Clint nods, looking at his hands. “Well, I'll still be here when you get back.”

“Hmm.” Natasha looks around at the familiar grey surfaces. The room is not as bare as the one she was first kept in. There are a stack of old paperback novels on the desk and even a television in the corner. “At least you can finally catch up on the finale of _Dog Cops._ ”

As jokes go it is awful, but Clint laughs anyway. It sounds brittle to her ears.

Natasha swallows as she sits down next to him. “I haven’t seen you at the range for a while.”

“No. They’re making me requalify for everything first. Besides, I haven’t felt much like shooting arrows in enclosed spaces.”

“When I come back I’ll take you to shoot at trees.”

“Yeah.” Clint isn’t smiling but his shoulders start to relax. “Somewhere with grass.”

“And birds.”

“Rivers. Or a pond.”

Clint shakes his head. “An ocean. With plenty of sun.” He holds her eyes for a moment and it hurts when he looks down again. “I know you hate the cold.”

They fall into silence and there it is again, that chasm stretching out in the fucked up landscape of their lives, and she will never understand how two people can be too close and too far apart at the same time.

When Clint speaks again his voice sounds too quiet in the room. “I apologised to Hill. You know, for shooting at her.”

“And?”

“She said it wasn’t my fault. Like that makes it all okay.”

Natasha bites her lip. “Maybe she’s saying it for herself.”

“You always know better.”

“About this? Yeah, I do.” She holds on to her knees as her eyes trace the contours of his face. “It gets easier.”

“Don’t coddle me,” he snaps.

“I’m not a good person, Clint,” Natasha sighs. “I could tell you that the guilt will pass, and no one will blame you, but you won’t believe me, and I’d be lying. I couldn’t coddle you if I tried. Not as myself, anyway. Want me to be someone else? You seemed to like Elena.”

“Tasha, don’t,” he growls at her. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Natasha sees him retreat into himself, and that is it, she is done. Done with half-smiles and sideways glances and gaps that seem too wide to cross.

She leans forward, sees his eyes widen and presses her lips to his mouth before she can change her mind.

Clint breathes in sharply but does not move, and Natasha trembles, like she got it wrong, before his hand comes up to her face and he is kissing her back.

She pulls away, willing the nerves to stop because nothing has changed. They have always been this, two halves of a whole, and for every time they fall apart, they will find each other again.

Their eyes meet before their lips crash together again and she climbs into his lap.

He breaks away suddenly. “Do you…”

“Yes.”

His tongue slides into her mouth, she curls her fingers into his hair, and she is pressing desperately into him when her phone rings.

Clint stills, his hands on her waist, and Natasha presses her face into his neck. His heart races under her hands and his breath tickles her shoulder when she hears his strangled _“Again?”_

Natasha breaks, unable to contain it, the laughter bubbling out like a flood, and then Clint joins in and they are shaking, holding each other, and she doesn’t know whose tears she feels against her cheeks.

Natasha finally recovers enough to answer her phone, and Clint reaches out to hold her hand in his.

“I take it they want you to go?” he says when she finishes the call.

She smiles sadly. “Yeah.”

Clint brings her hand up to his lips. “You know where to find me.”

She kisses him and there is no space between them at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! This fic has been a joy and a challenge to write. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Warnings: sex, mild bondage, mentions of trauma and recovery.

The days wear on in an endless stream of tests. Clint sits through progress reviews and meetings with S.H.I.E.L.D scientists enthusiastic to discuss every detail of Loki’s technology, passes his physical tests and goes to the psychologist twice a week. It takes three sessions before he gives them more than a one-word answer.

After two months he is cleared to go on short-term missions and does a few milk runs, junior agent level stuff. It should be insulting but in truth, he’s just glad to be out of the base.

End of the fourth month and he’s being debriefed by Maria Hill. It’s short and he stands to leave when Hill says, “by the way, Romanoff got back five minutes ago.”

There is no air in the room.

Clint nods and concentrates on not rushing out of the office. He makes his way through the maze of corridors to the hangar bay, heart pounding. The world narrows to a single point. Is this it? Did you come back for me?

The hangar bay stretches out before him, and there she is, grinning, walking towards him, and his heart swells like it might burst.

“Hey, Barton,” Natasha says. They are surrounded by agents and she keeps her distance, arms folded, shifting her weight ever so slightly.

He fights to keep his voice calm. “Romanoff.”

Her eyes linger on lips and then flick towards a nearby storage locker. He follows her without a word.

The heavy door swings shut behind them and she attacks his mouth, moaning as he slides his hands under her buttocks, lifting her up and anchoring her to him as his lips and teeth devour her. She wraps her legs around him causing gorgeous friction in his pants, and Clint could die happy right here.

“I’ve cleared time with Fury,” she pants in between kisses. “Pack a bag.”

* * *

 

‘Cleared time’ turns out to be two business class seats on a flight to Sydney. After buying supplies in the city, they drive for hours in a rental car until they reach a cabin on the south coast, resting above a secluded beach. It has one access road that’s remote and rocky enough that they won’t be found by unwitting backpackers, and Clint unloads the car while Natasha starts the generator. S.H.I.E.L.D has safe houses scattered on every continent, but Clint knows this is Natasha’s place. They are off the grid.

The interior is simple but comfortable, with a large bed covered by a mosquito net, two worn armchairs and a bookshelf against the wall stuffed with classics. Clint smiles as he reads the titles. The Russian greats are there, of course, but also books in French, German, Italian and Chinese. _The Master and Margarita_ rubs shoulders with _The Complete Works of Shakespeare._

Clint prefers non-fiction, military history and politics. He likes to know the context of the countries and situations his work flings him into.

Once they are settled in they eat mangoes on the bench out on the front porch, Clint with a bottle of water because he doesn’t trust himself around alcohol just yet, Natasha in shorts and a t-shirt, sipping a glass of white wine.

Clint leans back in his deck chair and watches the cockatoos screeching overhead. A flock of brightly coloured parrots fly up out of the trees, a storm of yellows, greens and reds.

He does not know how long he sits there, watching the circling birds with the sound of waves in his ears, but he comes back to himself to find Natasha looking at him, turning her now empty wine glass in her hand with her head cocked to one side. “Welcome back.”

“I didn’t go far.”

She sets down her glass and catches his lips in a mango-flavoured kiss. “I’m done with waiting.”

* * *

 

She undoes her bra and if the room goes dim, it is because the blood rushed from his head.

“See something you like, Barton?”

Clint snaps out of his shock, reaching for her and hauling her against him before he sits on the bed and holds her in his lap. He kisses her lips once and then moves down her body, kissing along the curve of each breast, cupping them in his hands before circling his tongue around her left nipple. She moans, arching against him, hands coming up to hold his head in place as he uses his mouth, and when she starts to move her hips he feels like he could lose his mind.

She pushes him down onto the bed, making quick work of his belt and jeans, then crawls up to him as he helps her take off her shorts.

“Condom,” she hisses as she bites his neck.

“Right.” Clint rolls over and rummages in the bedside drawer. “Got it.” He rips open a foil packet, slides the condom down his cock and he is achingly, mind-blowingly hard.

He doesn’t have much time to think about it though, because Natasha grabs him and crushes her lips to his.

He moves between her legs, breaking off the kiss as the head of his cock brushes her. “You sure about this?”

She grabs his shoulders, pulling him down. “Yes.”

Clint shifts his hips and finally, he is pushing into her.

Clint braces himself above her, marvelling as Natasha tips her head back, lips parted and eyes closed in pleasure. She unravels him, pulls out the stitches, leaving him raw, open, something new that doesn’t have a name. He doesn’t deserve her, could never deserve her, she can have any man she wants, men who are younger and less broken than him, men who don’t dream of deserts and bombs and whiskey-soaked fathers, but some how, lucky son of a bitch that he is, she is here in all her flaming glory.

He prays to God that he is worthy.

He picks up the pace and thrusts into her. She moans and pulls him impossibly deeper, rocking her hips. “Fuck yes,” he gasps as he feels her tighten around him. “Come for me, Tasha.”

She ruins him, always has.

* * *

 

Natasha is still catching her breath when Clint slides his arms around her, pulling her to him. She has never been one for cuddles but she indulges him, throwing an arm across his taught stomach and resting her head on his chest. Natasha knows that nothing is certain, that new and fragile things can be blown apart in seconds, so she clings to happiness where she finds it and locks it away in her mind to keep it safe. She presses a kiss to Clint’s damp skin and tries to etch every detail of this moment into her memory.

Clint strokes her back as he kisses the top of her head. She smirks. “Feeling more relaxed?”

“Hmm…” Clint tips her chin up so he can kiss her, slowly and with enough pressure to leave her wanting all over again. “I’d say so. Can’t know for sure until I’ve repeated the experiment.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her and Natasha laughs, smacking him lightly on the chest. He falls back against the pillows, yawning, and Natasha pulls a sheet over their cooling bodies as she settles in his arms, closing her eyes to the rhythm of his breathing.

Later she wakes to find Clint staring at the ceiling, his fingers threaded in her hair.

“What are you thinking?”

She sees him swallow. “I saw the security footage from when you interrogated Loki.”

Natasha tries not to let her body tense. “And?”

“Would you have done it? Handed over SHIELD’s secrets to get me back?”

Natasha traces patterns on his skin with her fingers. “It was an interrogation tactic, Clint.”

“You know what I mean.”

She turns to look at him. “What would you have done if it was me?”

His eyes do not leave hers. “I think you know.”

Her throat has never been so dry. “I went to war for you,” she whispers, and she knows he hears everything she will not say. _I would bring you Loki’s head if it would make you whole._

Instead she rolls over, kisses the scar marring his skin from Berlin, and gets out of bed. “I’m going to have a shower.”

She crosses the floor to the bathroom, feeling his eyes on her as she walks.

“Want me to wait outside the room this time?” he calls as she turns on the tap.

She grins and steps under the spray. “Get in here, Hawkeye.”

* * *

 

The days pass in a haze of sun and sex.

Natasha strings up a hammock on the porch and reads a book while Clint explores the surrounding bushland, rigging up an impromptu trapeze from a tree branch so he can demonstrate the circus skills he still remembers. Natasha calls him a show off and he chases her into the house, catching her against the wall and slipping his fingers into her panties. In the end she gasps his name.

They swim in the ocean, holding each other in the surf, and there is no such thing as perfection, but this is close enough.

The sex, as she always suspected, is scorching, and she is determined to make up for lost time in as many ways as possible.

“I have an idea for tonight,” she says, lingering on the words.

Clint is sitting on the bed in nothing but his old jeans, his skin stained golden by the Australian sun. “Do you,” he drawls.

“Well…” She reaches into a drawer and pulls out some ropes.

Clint’s grin is filthy. “Oh, I like the way you think.”

Stepping closer, she loops one rope around his neck and uses it to draw him to her. “Take off your pants,” she breathes, her lips barely touching his.

* * *

 

She watches him as he strains against the ropes, veins starkly defined against his muscled arms, his body so alive with raw energy that she imagines if she leant close she would hear his skin hum, electric.

She takes him in her mouth and he arches against the restraints, whimpers and gasps escaping from his throat as he scrunches his eyes shut with the effort to control himself. Clint could slip out any time, the knots were not her professional ones, and thrill of his submission makes her wet.

Natasha straddles him and slides down onto his cock, crying out as she sets a brutal rhythm. Clint lets forth a flood of swear words, he has a dirty mouth at the best of times and it gets to a whole new level during sex. He pulls so hard on the ropes the headboard creaks, as if he could rip it off. The thought makes her clench down on him.

“Tasha, fuck,” Clint moans. “I need… please, I have to, I need to touch you.”

Stilling above him, she tries to look composed. “So do it.”

Permission granted; he tears himself free, grabbing her hips and flipping them over so he can drive into her. His fingers slip between them to rub her clit, and there is no way Natasha can keep holding on.

She comes as he swallows her moan and follows right after, and Natasha doesn’t believe in forever, but sometimes she thinks she might.

* * *

 

The world is cold.

He is frozen, trapped under blue ice, his fingernails scratch at the surface but he only sinks deeper, water rushing into his lungs, he is falling, falling…

Clint wakes up, sweating.

* * *

 

Clint escapes onto the porch as quietly as he can, pulling his shirt on over his head. The sky is streaked orange and pink with the first light of dawn, the sun a tiny glow on the horizon. The ocean stretches on without end, like they are the only two people on earth.

He grips the porch rail so hard his knuckles turn white, filling his lungs with eucalypt and salt flavoured air while he wills his heart to stop racing.

“Clint.”

He jumps, whirling around, his arms raised to strike, and sees Natasha leaning against the doorframe, wearing one of his shirts. She doesn’t look surprised at all.

“Jesus, Tasha,” he pants. “Warn a man next time.”

“I did.” She does not move. “I stepped on the creaky floorboard and tapped on the door.”

Clint stares at her as the truth claws into his chest. All their tricks for keeping each other grounded and he still didn’t hear her, too wrapped up in his head, leaving him exposed and open.

“Oh,” he says, and he feels a pain growing in his chest that he cannot fight. He slumps onto the bench, holding his head in his hands.

“Hey.” He senses rather than sees Natasha sit down next to him. “Bad dream?”

Clint rubs his hands over his face, releasing a shuddering breath. “Yeah.” He gives her a sidelong glance and the laugh that escapes from his throat sounds far too much like a sob. “I thought I was doing better.”

“Clint, you are.” He feels Natasha’s hand on his back as he rests his forearms on his knees, staring at the splintery boards beneath his feet. “It takes time, you can’t push this.”

Her lips brush his cheek and he feels pain of a different kind.

He asks, “Does it ever go away?”

Her answer is pure Natasha, straight to the point, no attempt at sugar coating. “Never. But it does get easier.”

He takes her face his hands and kisses her like she could save him.

* * *

 

This is what he knows.

Natasha appreciates dark chocolate, good wine and strong tea. Her preferred weapons are her guns and her knife, and she carries every innocent death like a weight around her neck.

He knows she has secrets that she will never tell him, and sometimes she will lie to protect them and sometimes she will lie because that is her way. Some he will see through, most he won’t.

Clint trusts she will tell the truth when it matters, and that is enough.

“Say we lost. Say you got me back and Loki won anyway. What would we do?”

Natasha rests her head on his shoulder as they watch the waves crash onto the beach.

“Live.”


End file.
